The front of the house was deserted, and he went round to the side, where the dining room was. Just as he turned the corner, he saw some one come out through one of the French windows. He stopped, and drew back into the shadow of the wall. It was a man, and he fancied he recognized that slender and vigorous figure. He waited and watched.
The other man stopped to light a cigarette, but his back was toward the house. Then he strolled on leisurely toward the garage. Page followed him a little way, but when the other entered the brightly lit building, he was satisfied. It was young Randall.
That was all he needed to know. He went back to the front of the house and entered there. It was his own house, but the servants—a new crew—did not know him. The butler tried to stop him, but he pushed the anxious little man aside, and proceeded to the dining room.
They were there, the whole crowd of them, sitting about the disordered table, jaded and hot, and full of a restless languor. The air was thick with cigarette smoke. A little blue-eyed man with a gray mustache was performing an elaborate conjuring trick with match sticks and somebody’s gold watch, and Serena lay back in her chair, looking at him with a distant smile. Her haggard face was flushed, her eyes heavy. Jesse Page thought he had never seen her more beautiful, or more hateful.
“By God, it’s not fair!” he thought again. “I’ve given her everything, I’ve put up with all her whims, and now I—I could kill her!”
It was as if his thought had sped through the room like an arrow. Serena straightened up in her chair, turned her head, and saw him standing in the doorway.
“Jesse!” she cried.
He did not speak or move. He stood there, his straw hat pushed back, staring at her with narrowed eyes.
“Jesse!” she said again.
She half rose from her chair, her own eyes dilated and fixed upon him. Then some one near her stirred, and the sound recalled her to her surroundings. Here was the stage upon which she was accustomed to play a leading part, and every one was looking at her.